They turned a corner onto another street and kept walking.
The third man who’d been at the synagogue, the one who’d left with everything found during the body search, now returned and whispered something to the others.
A nod confirmed they understood.
They stopped at a door to one of the houses. A key opened the lock and they were led inside. The rooms were dark, but he spotted few furnishings, the air musty. Another door was opened and a light revealed a stairway down. One of the men with a gun motioned for them to descend.
“No,” Alle said. “I’m not going down there.”
In the penumbra of light he saw that none of the three appreciated her refusal. The one without a gun stepped forward.
“You come here and desecrate our synagogue. You trespass on our sacred site. You violate our laws. And you want to argue with us? You want to challenge us?”
“Call the police,” Tom said, testing the water.
The young man laughed. “They don’t care what happens here.”
“Who is they?” he asked.
“The police. The lord mayor. The city council.”
He knew anti-Semitism was on the rise in Europe. That was another thing about the Internet, every day he could scan newspapers from around the world. He recalled reading more and more stories about bigotry.
“So what do you do with trespassers?” he asked.
“Last one we had, we beat the living hell out of him.”
———
ALLE HEARD THE THREAT AND KNEW THIS WAS A BAD SITUATION. They were alone, without help. They’d taken her shoulder bag that contained her passport and Zachariah’s cell phone. The gun her father carried from the cathedral was tucked in the car, left there intentionally. She’d wondered why he hadn’t brought it, but had not questioned him.
Her father did not seem scared. She was terrified. As much as in the car with Midnight. She could still see Brian Jamison bleeding, his body twitching in agony.
“Down the stairs,” the man said again.
Little choice existed, so she led the way. At the bottom they stood inside a cellar, Romanesque arches of cut stone supporting a vaulted ceiling. Not a large room and nothing there except a wooden table with six chairs.
“Sit,” one of the men ordered.
Her father slid out one of the chairs. “What now?”
“You wait,” the man said.
———
TOM HAD BEEN IN TOUGH SITUATIONS BEFORE, ESPECIALLY IN the Middle East, when sources liked a little drama to go with their revelations. Most times it was only theater. One thing he’d learned was that terrorists, no matter the nationality, understood that their points would go unnoticed if no one reported them. The fear, which they so carefully cultivated, would have no affect without the targeted audience knowing it existed. That didn’t mean they actually liked the press, just that they understood how to use it. Sometimes, to make the point that they were in charge, there were props like blindfolds, long car rides, and bravado that had to be endured. On his last story they’d staged the preparations for an attack, weapons and all.
What a show.
Academy Award caliber.
Once he’d been embedded within a Palestinian resistance group for six weeks. He’d seen and heard a lot, most of which he quickly realized had been for his benefit. Sure, he’d tried to understand them, but never had he shown either resentment or sympathy. Stay above the fray. And that was only possible with your mouth shut and ears open.
So he sat and waited for these young men to talk.
Another thing.
The younger they were, the looser the jaw.
He’d left the gun in the car on purpose on the off chance they’d run into the police. Carrying weapons around Europe could be a serious matter. Most likely it was against Czech law—which, he’d noticed, these men seemed not to care about.
“You’re on your own, aren’t you?” he asked them. “You police the quarter yourself because you have to.”
“What do you care?” one of them asked.
“My parents were Jews.”
“And what are you?”
“He decided he didn’t want to be one of us,” Alle said.
The man asking the questions threw her a strange look. “One of us? Does one of us try to vandalize a synagogue?”
“We weren’t vandalizing anything,” Tom said. “And you know that.”
He caught the apprising gaze. “You’re in no position to be a smartass.”
“And what is my position?”
“Not good,” the young man said.
“Come now,” a new voice said.
Older. Gravelly.
He and Alle turned to see an elderly man descending the stairs. He was short, Spartan-thin, with snow-white hair. His face was a maze of wrinkles, cheeks sunken, brow furrowed, one frail hand gripping the railing, the other holding the note, the map, and the key. Alle’s bag draped his shoulder. He negotiated the risers one at a time, eyes down, careful with his movements.
The old man found the bottom and straightened himself.
“We must not be rude. Go now. Leave me.”
The three young men stepped toward the stairs. One of them said, “You sure you do not want us to stay?”
“No. No. I will be fine. Go now. I want a chat with these two.”
The three climbed the stairs and Tom heard the door upstairs close as they left.
A lively interest swept into the man’s dark eyes as he gestured with what he held. “I am Rabbi Berlinger. I want to know where you obtained these items.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
ZACHARIAH CHECKED HIS WATCH. 5:50 A.M. PRAGUE WOULD soon be waking up.
He loved this city and felt a connection with its tumultuous past. Orthodox tradition was strong here. Many of Judaism’s European precepts had been forged by wise rabbis living on the banks of the Vltana River. That was one reason he’d taken an interest in its preservation. The mayor for the local administrative district was an acquaintance, a diminutive man who’d made a point to tell him that if he ever needed anything to ask.
Today certainly qualified.
He’d first telephoned his estate in Austria and obtained the mayor’s contact information. A second call to a house in Prague had not woken anyone, as the mayor had been quick to say that he rose each day at 5:00 A.M. After explaining the situation, Zachariah was told to meet at the Old-New Synagogue at six. Not a problem since he and Rócha had been standing less than thirty meters away from the building.
He now stood alone outside the synagogue’s main door and watched the mayor approach, a thin soul with a thick mustache and sparse hair. Rócha remained on Parizska Street, out of sight of any surveillance cameras. He greeted the mayor in English and shook hands. He knew a little about him. Once a Christian, he converted early in life. He was Orthodox and pro-Israel, but not as harsh on the Prague central authorities as others before him had been. Far too conciliatory for Zachariah’s taste but, thankfully, that’s exactly what he needed at the moment.
The mayor withdrew a set of keys and opened the door. “I come here each morning to pray. One of the benefits of being in charge.”
They entered through a Gothic portal adorned with intertwining grapevine reliefs. Twelve roots, one for each of the lost tribes. Lights came on in the vestibule and he spotted two strongboxes embedded in stone—used, he knew, centuries ago for the collection of special taxes on Jews.
He loved this building. Vienna’s synagogue was impressive for its beauty. This one was spectacular in simplicity. Heavy octagonal pillars and vaults with five-section ribbing divided the rectangle into two naves. He knew there were five ribs overhead to prevent a cross from being formed by only four. The seat of the high rabbi was positioned at the east end along with the ark, iron bars and a drape protecting the Torah. An elevated platform surrounded by a wrought-iron grille consumed the center, the almemor, which accommodated a prayer easel. The walls and the center platform were lined with bench seats passed down, he’d been told, through generations. Not many, maybe seventy or so. Hanging from above was a red banner with a Star of David, a gift originally from Charles IV in 1358 as a sign of Jewish privilege. He’d always scoffed at such gestures, since history had proven none were sincere.